


The One With the Foot Fetish

by capalxii



Series: Longer prompt fills [11]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Foot Fetish, Minsode: Clara and the TARDIS, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capalxii/pseuds/capalxii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous tumblr prompt: "clara/clara foot fetish set during the "clara and the tardis" minisode?" what it says on the tin, fade-to-black ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With the Foot Fetish

You wouldn’t know from looking, but Clara Oswald has a lot of insecurities. Baking, for instance. She’s a terrible baker. A terrible cook in general—she doesn’t like to talk about the time she nearly set her apartment on fire boiling an egg—but baking, especially, is her weakness. She’s fairly sure that in some fairy tale version of her life, some Walter Mitty style escapade where she’s saving the universe a thousand different ways across time and space, she’d still fuck up baking. And she hates having to showcase that lack of skill; this year, she’s doing Christmas dinner, only because that cow Linda had intimated that she couldn’t handle it and Clara’s other weakness was being told she can’t do something, and while she might have the turkey sorted, maybe, if she’s lucky, she’s pretty certain the rolls are coming directly from the shop down the road. Linda won’t be able to tell. Linda thinks she can tell. Clara once tricked Linda into thinking sliced up chicken McNuggets drizzled in radioactive-orange sweet & sour sauce was a specialty hors d’oeuvre, just by looking up Youtube videos on proper plating. She’s not too worried about Linda.

Anyway, Clara does have insecurities. The reason you’d never tell from looking is that the one thing she’s never been insecure about, not once, are her own looks. She’s hot. There’s no other way to put it. She’s the type of person who—well, she doesn’t stop every time she passes by a mirror, she’s not quite that vain, but the only reason she doesn’t stop is because she thinks, “Self, don’t stop in front of that mirror. You already know you’re hot. You don’t need to admire the view, self. Keep moving.” And so she carries herself like a hot person who knows they’re hot, and nobody is the wiser about the fact that she’s a hot person who was at one point hot in the most literal sense solely because she managed to fuck up water and an uncooked egg.

The problem as it stands is that she has no way, currently, to tell herself to stop staring at herself. There are too many herselves around. One in particular has been with her nearly as long as this trial has been going on; the TARDIS had made her meet a version of her from the past, or the future, or a possible past or future, she’s not sure, after “misplacing” their bedroom. “Bet the TARDIS wouldn’t know the difference between store-bought and home made,” she muttered to herself.

Herself seemed to know what she was talking about. (She would, being herself.) “You could probably pull the McNugget trick with it,” Herself replied. “God, I’m so tired of walking.”

“Sit, might as well get some rest,” Clara said. She’d noticed Herself walking a little gingerly; she’d come out with slippers, but Herself had been barefoot when she’d gotten lost. The hard metal flooring of the TARDIS wasn’t really helping any. She was sure that, if the TARDIS had wanted to, they could have a nice soft rubbery kind of flooring instead, but the old cow was cruel and spiteful and unnecessarily rude.

Honestly, the missing bedroom should have been the real tip-off there.

The floor was hard to sit on too, so she took off her cardigan, folded it, and put it under her. Herself did the same, sitting across the hall from her with her legs stretched out. It’s a strange thing, seeing one’s self at that angle; Clara’s pretty sure she’s hot to other people, too, now, regardless of the angle of attack. She takes one of Herself’s feet in hand, the left one, starts rubbing the sole, ruminates over the fact that, yes, even the bottoms of her feet are hot. Well, cute. She’s not sure that feet can be hot.

Until Herself gasps. That was...unexpected. Should’ve been expected, though, she knows her own body, she’s touched it often enough and been touched often enough. There’s a point in the arch of her foot that she presses her thumb into, a point that’s always slightly aching, and Herself gasps again. Thing is, she knows exactly what that reaction's for, and what's going on here. 

She knows exactly how Herself is feeling.

The back of her index finger traces down the outside of Herself’s arch, and she looks for a reaction. A little ticklish, Herself tries to jerk away, but she’s got a good hold around her ankle and she changes the pressure of that finger just so, just enough that it isn’t ticklish anymore. “Like?” she asks. Two fingers now, one on either side of her foot, tickling on the upstroke and pressing just a little harder on the downstroke. It’s amazing how such a minor action could create such a pretty reaction.

Herself bites her bottom lip. All hooded dark eyes, hands pressed flat against the floor, blush creeping into her cheeks. Nods. She’s got really cute feet, Clara thinks, and they do really great things. She puts her other hand under Herself’s knee, pulling her closer, smiling as she slides down the wall with a little squeak. “Very much like,” Herself says; Clara keeps her eyes on her face, watching her own eyelids flutter shut as she leans forward a little bit. Her breath against Herself’s toes has to feel like something else, and her tongue on them-

She’s a little surprised to find how much she doesn’t hate it. Likes it, even. Feet apparently taste like feet, and on its own that would be fine but it’s more than fine when she sees her own jaw drop, hears the gasp that could have been a moan if the stars had aligned slightly differently. Poor thing. No wonder her feet hurt so much, considering how sensitive they were. She should have remembered; she always did like a boy or a girl or anybody, really, with a predilection for giving foot massages. Now, with Herself in front of her, starting to come ever so slightly undone under her touch, under her tongue pressed flat and then tracing the tip in a swirl in the hollow of her arch, she sees a little bit why they like it so much. 

One of Herself’s hands in Herself’s hair, the other barely starting to sneak under the waistband of her pyjamas, eyes screwed shut and whole body tensed with need—this is a new angle for her, and she’s going to savor it, isn’t she, because it’s not every day you get to make such an immensely attractive person look even sexier than normal. There's a sudden realization, as Herself's eyes flash open and look her over, that she probably looks just as sexy to Herself as Herself does to her. Which really is just exponentially hotter, she thinks. Like getting off in front of a mirror, except it's a mirror that takes an active role in things.

She wonders, with her own need building between her legs, what she’d have to do to make the TARDIS play this particular prank on her again. Maybe the ship wasn’t as big of a jerk as she’d thought.


End file.
